


this one last hurrah

by Arabwel



Series: My Mating Games Shenanigans [6]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Drunk Sex, Identity Porn, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-02-05 17:51:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1826983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arabwel/pseuds/Arabwel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even though it’s near impossible for a werewolf to get drunk, Peter is going to do his damnedest to succeed tonight. Tomorrow, he’s getting married, which should be a joyous occasion. It’s not. He’s never met the man he’s going to spend the rest of his life with, fuck, he doesn’t even know his<i> name </i>beyond <i>Argent.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	this one last hurrah

Even though it’s near impossible for a werewolf to get drunk, Peter is going to do his damnedest to succeed tonight. Tomorrow, he’s getting married, which should be a joyous occasion. It’s not. He’s never met the man he’s going to spend the rest of his life with, fuck, he doesn’t even know his _name_ beyond _Argent._

Trust his sister, _the Alpha,_ make decisions for the good of the pack and fuck Peter over in the process. It’s only logical, he’s young and not going to pose a threat by breeding mongrels to challenge Argent’s heir while warming the bed of the widower scion to cement ties. _If the old coot can even get it up._

There’s still wolfsbane clinging to his lips from when he’d chewed the flowers earlier, the scent tickling his nose when he knocks back another shot of Gray Goose. He swiped one of Talia’s cards, for this one last hurrah before he’s doomed to spend the rest of his life in a not-so-gilded cage. 

He’s deep in his misery but not so deep that he doesn’t notice the man who’s taken over the stool next to his. There’s a hint of gunpowder in the sweaty musk that’s tantalizing to his wolf senses, and a set of broad shoulders under a battered leather jacket. 

He must’ve made a noise because the man turns around, away from the whiskey in front of him – the memory of a gruff _leave the bottle_ flits through Peter’s mind – and their eyes meet, blue on blue. 

The guy’s handsome face delivers on the promise his shoulders made. He’s that much older than Peter but not _old_ , not like the man he’s about to wed in the morning. Peter can’t help a slow grin spreading on his face as he leans forward on his stool, towards the man whose expression is flitting from curiously alert to _interest._

Fifteen minutes and a few more shots later he’s pressed against the alley wall as the man – _Chris_ – bites on his neck. The calloused hand rubbing Peter through his jeans has him fighting to not to beg, to not to bare his throat any further. Brick scrapes though the thin fabric of his shirt and he can smell blood, the broken skin healing almost instantly as his hands grip Chris’s broad shoulders, human nails digging into the leather. 

He’s so hard it hurts when Chris moves to flip them around, surprisingly strong for a human. He doesn’t resist when a heavy hand on his neck guides him down, on his knees on the wet pavement and just licks his lips eagerly, tasting the mixed whiskey and vodka and Chris’s cinnamon toothpaste. 

Scent of wolfsbane still clings to his nose as he rubs his face on Chris’s jeans, mouthing at the hard line of the man’s cock through the rough fabric. An inpatient tug on his hair, hard enough to be painful draws a deep moan from him as he lifts his hands to undo the fly. 

Peter inhales deeply at the musky scent, nuzzling his face against the still-trapped balls before another tug has his head positioned just right for Chris’s hard cock to slide between his reddened lips. 

Peter moans, eyes fluttering shut as he grips Chris’s thighs, letting the man fuck into his mouth with short, sharp thrusts. He’s drunk and sloppy, gagging and drooling but he doesn’t care, heat gathering at the pit of his belly. He’s gonna come from this, from the weight of the cock on his tongue, the taste of bitter precome mingling with the booze and filling him with a haze of lust. 

He tries to reach down to take himself in hand but Chris is lightning-fast, grabbing his wrist and pinning it down, the hand in his hair tightening to pull Peter off his dick. 

Peter blinks and looks up, breath coming in short pants through his still wide open mouth. It’s driven out of him when he’s pulled up and pushed into the wall, face-first, rough bricks blessedly cold against his face. 

When Chris’s spit-slicked cock starts to slowly press into him, his last coherent thought is how much he is going miss this. 

**

Werewolves are not immune to hangovers. The morning sunlight stabs at Peter’s eyes, and his head throbs with every step he takes. 

When he sees his future husband he blinks and thinks, he must still be asleep. Because it can’t be – 

“Peter,” Talia’s voice is firm. “Meet Christopher Argent.”


End file.
